


Selected Excerpts from ‘Comparative Alien Physiology’ by Leonard H. McCoy

by NB_Cecil



Series: Spones [9]
Category: Star Trek: The Original Series, Star Trek: The Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Sex, Alien/Human Relationships, Anal Fingering, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bondmate Spones, Canon compliant-ish, Children of Characters, Clothing Kink, Comfort/Angst, Comparative Alien Physiology (textbook) by Leonard H McCoy, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Friday’s Child, Grumpy McCoy, Hand Jobs, Humor, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Kidfic, Lonely Masturbation, Long-Distance Relationship, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Masturbation, Medical Text, Oral Sex, Pon Farr, Post-Break Up, Sad Lonely Masturbation Light Years Apart, Seduction, Self-Harm, Slash, Sleepy Sex, Spock’s Junk, Spones’ Mental Bond Works Over Very Long Distances, Tentacle Dick, Tentacles, Time Spans Many Decades, Vulcan Biology, Vulcan Culture, Vulcan Kisses, Vulcan Language, Vulcan Mind Melds, Vulcan sexuality, alien sexuality, angst/no comfort, passing mention of self-harm, snarky spock, spones - Freeform, tmp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:47:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23821054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NB_Cecil/pseuds/NB_Cecil
Summary: “It is a common misconception thatpon farris focused entirely on carnality . . .”McCoy based the chapter onpon farrin his treatiseComparative Alien Physiologyon his many years’ personal experience.Excerpts (in italics) from McCoy’s book interspersed with vignettes from Sponespon farrs throughout the years. Sometimes it’s angst, sometimes it’s fluff, sometimes it’s gratuitous slash.
Relationships: Leonard "Bones" McCoy/Spock
Series: Spones [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1563289
Comments: 15
Kudos: 101





	1. Prologue/Cinnamon Rolls

**Author's Note:**

> Skip chapters 2, 5 and 6 if you wish to avoid smut. Each chapter works as a self-contained vignette without these.
> 
> Or, jump to chapters 2, 5 and 6 if you’re only here for the smut :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock bakes cinnamon rolls.

_It is a common misconception that_ pon farr _is focused entirely on carnality . . ._

Cinnamon Rolls

Spock opened the antique solar oven and peered inside. The food within was perfectly browned. Using a towel as a makeshift oven glove, he removed the tray and set it on the countertop. While it cooled, he mixed more of the illicit _potau-slor-tukh_ with water. When he was satisfied with the consistency, he poured it over the contents of the tray, then put the bag inside an empty instant _plomeek_ soup packet and pushed it to the back of a cupboard.

He poured out a glass of _theris_ and a large mug of strong black coffee, sliced the freshly baked cinnamon rolls and piled some onto a plate. He loaded everything up onto a tray and made his way out to the small dwelling’s courtyard, where Leonard McCoy sat on a large bolder, back against the rock wall, eyes closed, soaking in the rays of the morning sun before the searing heat of the Vulcan day became too much for a human to endure.

McCoy pushed off from the wall when he heard the approaching slap of Spock’s sandals on the ground. He grinned when he saw the tray. “Is that coffee?” He asked.

“Indeed it is.” Spock replied. He set the tray down on a wide, flat boulder.

“You’re a doll, Spock.” McCoy said, reaching for his coffee. Spock gave him a quizzical look and sat down on a second boulder opposite McCoy. McCoy hid his smirk behind the mug. 

“Is it to your liking?” Spock asked, leaning forward, an eager expression on his face.

McCoy took a long gulp, smacked his lips together and sighed. “It’s perfect, Spock.”

“You exaggerate.”

“Only a little,” McCoy conceded, “it is one of the better coffees I’ve had recently.”

“Please elaborate.” Spock shuffled forward on his boulder, staring intently at McCoy.

“Well,” McCoy took another gulp and stared into he cup, swirling the liquid for a moment as he thought, “it’s hot, strong, dark as the mines on Janus VI, and it tastes like you’ve put a ton of sugar in it.”

“A mere three teaspoons.”

McCoy looked sharply at Spock. “Where did you get sugar on Vulcan?” He asked.

“I brought it along with us.” Spock replied.

“What _is_ the minimum sentence for smuggling sucrose onto Vulcan?”

“Twenty years or permanent exile. At the discretion of the court.” McCoy’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at the severity of the punishment. “Please, Leonard, try the baked confection. I am eager to hear your opinion on it.”

“You’d better not get caught.” McCoy said. He put down the coffee and picked up a cinnamon bun.

Spock shuffled closer still, until his knee touched McCoy’s. “I don’t intend to.” He said, eyes fixed on McCoy’s face as McCoy took a bite of the pastry.

McCoy chewed and swallowed in silence, looking down at his lap and picking at the hem of his shirt. “It’s good.” He said when he’d finished. The corners of Spock’s mouth twitched up at the praise. “Very good, actually.” McCoy reached for a second bun. “Where d’you learn to bake like that?”

Spock had crept so close to McCoy that he was on his knees now, leaning his forearm on the human’s thigh. “I am capable of following a recipe.” He lifted his hand to McCoy’s face and swiped a finger across his chin, wiping away a stray blob of icing. “Are you enjoying your breakfast, Leonard?” He asked.

“Yeah, its...” McCoy licked his sticky fingers. “It’s very good.” Spock settled back on his heels, grinning. McCoy gave the vulcan’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “Hey. Are you alright, Spock?” He asked. Spock nodded and hummed an affirmative. “You sure? You seem a little needy, emotionally.” McCoy pressed.

Spock traced patterns on McCoy’s thigh with his finger as he spoke. “ _Pon farr_ does have a tendency to expose our vulnerabilities,” he said, “and perhaps . . .” He looked away, thinking, “Yes, I am seeking validation more than usual.”

McCoy caught Spock’s hand in his own, stilling it. He stood, pulling Spock to his feet along with him. “It really was a lovely breakfast. Thank you,” he said. 

_Symptoms of_ Pon farr _include intense focus on the bondmate(s), characterised by doting behaviour, a strong desire for external validation, and acute fixation on bondmates’ physical attributes. This commonly manifests in attention-seeking behaviour, which can be suppressed via the use of a light sedative should the circumstance require, but is best managed through praise, reassurance and affirmation from the bondmate(s)._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up, folks. The next chapter’s going to be pure, unadulterated smut.


	2. Little Black Dress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCoy wakes to a surprise from Spock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright! This one is just ~2000 words of gratuitous filth. Enjoy! (Or skip over if this isn’t your thing.)

Little Black Dress

McCoy sensed Spock staring at him as his mind shook off the fog of sleep. He opened his eyes, sat up in bed and looked over to where Spock was lounging against the dividing screen between the living and sleeping areas of the vulcan’s quarters. A slow grin spread across the human’s face as he took in the sight. He fumbled for the chronometer on the night stand, rubbed sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand, and stared blearily at the display. 05:53, ship’s time. He looked back at Spock, still leaning, waiting. Wearing an indecently short black cocktail dress made from a silky fabric which clung to his hips, fishnet stockings, and black stiletto heels McCoy was certain he’d never be able to stand up in himself, let alone stand so casually, balanced with one foot crossed over the other the way Spock was standing now. His eyes flicked to Spock’s face, then down to the chrono clutched in his hand—still 05:53 _AM_ , not PM—and back up to Spock’s face, which was adorned with considerably more than usual of the vulcan’s trademark violet eyeshadow and bubblegum pink lipstick, as well as a green, shimmery highlight along the top of each cheekbone.

“Well.” McCoy managed at last. Spock’s right eyebrow quirked slightly up, the rest of his body remaining entirely still while he waited for McCoy to elaborate. “Well.” McCoy repeated after several seconds’ silence. He pushed the blanket back, replaced the chrono on the nightstand, and drew his knees up to his chest. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this,” he gestured to Spock, “but it sure beats a wake-up call from the Computer.”

“Indeed.” Spock said. He approached the bed slowly, swaying his hips as he walked, heels clicking on the deck.

McCoy watched, mesmerised, as Spock settled on the edge of the bed, crossed one leg over the other, and rested both hands atop his knee. “Damn,” he breathed, shaking his head slowly in appreciation. “Damn, Spock . . . _Damn_.”

“Am I to understand from your repeated expletive that my appearance is agreeable to you, Doctor?” Spock leaned in a little toward McCoy as he asked.

McCoy swallowed hard. “That would be an understatement.”

“Then it seems I am likely to succeed in my endeavour.” 

“Which is?”

“Seduction.” Spock straightened his leg and wriggled his foot until the shoe slipped from his heel. He let it dangle from his toes.

“Damn.” McCoy repeated.

“Your conversation skills are not at their best this morning,” Spock remarked. He kicked off the shoe, bent forward to remove the other, giving McCoy a fine view of the dress riding up his thigh as he did so, and pulled his legs up onto the bed. He moved closer to the doctor and offered his hand, fingers splayed.

McCoy pressed his fingertips slowly to Spock’s. “You don’t give a man much of a chance, doing all this before he’s had time to clean his teeth in the morning.” He grumbled.

Spock moved his fingers slowly against McCoy’s. “Fortunately, I only require minimal verbal response from you.” 

“Well, that’s alright then.” McCoy grinned and tried to pull Spock into an hug.

“Patience, doctor.” Spock admonished, dodging out of the embrace.

“If you wanted patience, you should’ve picked a different outfit.” McCoy made a lunge for him. 

Spock pushed the flat of his hand against McCoy’s chest, forcing him down onto the pillow. “It took thirty minutes to apply my makeup while you were sleeping,” he said tersely, “I would appreciate it if you would exercise some control over your impulsive tendencies.”

McCoy put up the briefest of fights for the sake of appearances, trying to slap Spock’s hand away before allowing himself to be manoeuvred into the position Spock wanted: on his back on the bed, head and shoulders propped up on thin _Starfleet_ -issue pillows—Spock had produced several more from beneath the bed—arms by his sides and legs pressed together.

Spock sat astride his thighs, all fishnets, and skirt riding up, and sharp, sharp cheekbones. Feeling compelled to run his finger along one cheekbone, McCoy raised a hand halfway to Spock’s face, but lowered it again when Spock gave it a pointed glare. He contented himself with placing the hand on Spock’s thigh instead. Spock’s skin burned hot against his palm through the wide weave of the stocking.

“Damn, Spock.” McCoy said again. “Damn.”

Spock sat back on his heels and gave his bondmate a long, languid look up-and-down. McCoy suddenly felt acutely aware of how washed-out the old uniform undershirt he’d slept in for the last week was, and he couldn’t see from this angle, but he really hoped he wasn’t wearing the boxers with the hole where the waistband was parting company from the rest of the garment. He squirmed involuntarily when Spock slipped a hand under his shirt, the heat of Spock’s palm seeming to go straight to through his belly and down to his cock, which strained against the fabric of his boxers. 

Spock gave a low growl of disapproval and pressed down on McCoy’s hip with his free hand, muttering, “Patience, Leonard. You will have what you desire.”

The rare intimacy of Spock using his given name while they were aboard the _Enterprise_ had McCoy’s breath catching in his throat, and he fought the urge to make another grab for the vulcan, to pull him into a fierce kiss. “Spock.” He whined.

Spock’s hand rested against McCoy’s belly under his shirt, the tips of his index and middle fingers just touching the doctor’s sternum. He didn’t give any indication of what he wanted McCoy to do, so he lay waiting while Spock sat with eyes closed, hand pressed against McCoy’s belly, breathing slow and deep. 

Eventually, Spock opened his eyes and gazed down at McCoy, his expression inscrutable. A nervous giggle escaped McCoy’s throat. Spock ignored it, reached into the top of his stocking, and produced a small bottle of lube he’d stashed there while McCoy was asleep. He helped McCoy wriggle out of his boxers, then settled back astride his thighs.

McCoy flinched as the cold lube dripped onto the sensitive skin of his cock. It was swiftly followed by the heat of Spock’s hand. He groaned Spock’s name as the vulcan dragged his fingers slowly down his shaft, hissed in a sharp breath through clenched teeth when Spock pressed a thumb to the head of his cock and rubbed lazy circles. Frustrated by Spock’s unhurried ministrations, McCoy whined a curse and rolled his hips, pushing into Spock’s fist. 

Spock’s hand stilled. “All in good time, dear doctor,” he cooed, “all in good time.”

McCoy bucked his hips hopelessly, panting and begging, but Spock didn’t relent until he’d gained enough control over himself to lie still. Only then did Spock resume his languid stroking.

“Damn, Spock,” McCoy gasped, “you drive me crazy.” Spock looked down at him and smirked, licking his lips. It took all of McCoy’s self control not to start rolling his hips again. Despite the slow pace, he could feel his orgasm building with Spock’s rhythmic stroking. Infuriatingly, the vulcan took him almost to the brink before he stopped abruptly, fingers returning to rub circles on McCoy’s head and dip the tip of a fingernail once into his slit. 

“Goddammit, you fucking tease,” McCoy panted. Half-sitting up, he reached for his cock in order to finish the job.

Spock responded with an arched eyebrow, an emphatic “Control yourself _please_ ”, and a firm shove to McCoy’s chest, forcing him back down on the bed.

McCoy rolled his eyes and gripped the sheet in his fist. Spock was shifting his position now, kneeling between McCoy’s legs and nudging his thighs apart with his knees. McCoy felt a hot, slick digit press lightly behind his balls as the languid stroking on his cock resumed. He twitched and gasped as Spock slid the finger slowly down his perineum to rest against his hole. Spock paused to give him a questioning look, which McCoy managed to answer with a breathy “Ohgodplease.” Spock slipped in up to the first knuckle, then out again. In and out, McCoy tensing a little less around his finger each time. McCoy whimpered and rocked his hips again. Spock didn’t admonish him this time, but tightened his grip slightly on McCoy’s cock, adding a little twist to each upstroke which had McCoy panting and balling a handful of sheet in his fist. Spock’s finger slid fully into him and he let out a groan and thrust up into Spock’s hand. He was getting close again, so close, and then—

“You sadistic vulcan bastard!” McCoy half-shouted when Spock ceased all movement for the second time. “How do you know? How do you—?” He cut off when the realisation hit him. “You’re in my head, aren’t you?” Spock, still kneeling between his thighs, smirked. McCoy snorted his indignation. “Get on with it,” he spat, turning his face to the side and half-burying it in a pillow.

“Have you finished berating me?” Spock asked. He was met with stony silence. He gave McCoy a moment to calm down, then reached for more lube, coated his hands and shuffled down the bed, lying on his front between McCoy’s legs, propped up on his elbows, his face inches from the human’s cock. He took McCoy’s cock in his hand once more. 

“Just stop fucking around, would you?” McCoy grumbled.

“Fascinating,” Spock said. He slipped two fingers into McCoy’s hole, eliciting a sharp intake of breath.

“What!” McCoy snapped irritably.

“First you complain when I cease ‘fucking around’, then you complain when I resume ‘fucking around’.”

“You know what I mean, you obtuse son-of-a-bitch.”

Spock brought his lips close to McCoy’s cock. His fingertips found MyCoy’s prostate and he pressed against it as he spoke. “Doctor, if you continue to insult me, I will stop.” He flicked the tip of his tongue out and licked up a drop of precum. 

“Alright, alright,” McCoy conceded, “just stop teasing.”

Spock resumed his stroking of McCoy’s cock, curling his fingers inside him in time with the strokes. He closed his lips around the head of the human’s cock, letting him set the pace this time with the thrust of his hips. McCoy groaned and thrust faster. Spock answered with a low hum in the back of his throat and flicked his tongue over McCoy’s slit. 

“Spoooock,” McCoy cried, drawn-out.

Spock bobbed is head and slipped a third finger inside. He could feel McCoy was getting close again, both through the physiological signs—the increasing urgency of his thrusting, the little moans that escaped his mouth, the way he clenched and unclenched around Spock’s fingers—and via their telepathic connection. He’d let him go this time, Spock thought. The dear doctor had been very patient, after all.

Spock took his mouth off McCoy just long enough to growl a throaty “Go on”. MyCoy answered him with a keening whine and a snap of his hips. Spock tightened his lips around McCoy’s cock once more and twisted his hand inside him, slipping his little finger in as he did so. It was enough to send McCoy over the edge. The doctor let go with a long wail and Spock pulled back, replacing his mouth with his hand, pumping McCoy’s orgasm out of him with his fist. 

Spock slid his fingers out of McCoy and sat back on his heels. He looked down at the human, who lay with an arm draped over his forehead, panting, a wide grin on his face.

“You’ve got a bit there.” McCoy propped himself up on his elbows and gestured to Spock’s face. “Here,” he sat up, “let me.” He swiped the pad of his thumb over a blob of semen just below Spock’s lower lip.

“It’s more than ‘a bit’.” Spock remarked. He had been so focussed on delaying McCoy’s orgasm that he hadn’t given much consideration to how to handle the orgasm itself, so had not been ready to move away in time to avoid McCoy’s cum spraying over his face.

“It suits you,” McCoy smirked, “some dishevelment.”

“It does not.” Spock said. He rose from the bed. “Would you like to take a shower?”

“In a bit. I don’t think I can stand just yet.”

“Very well.” Spock turned and left for the bathroom.

McCoy leaned against the headboard and watched him go, the dress crumpled and one stocking bunched around his ankle. “What a picture.” He muttered to himself.

_Prior to the final_ plak’tow _phase, carnal expression of_ pon farr _is most often focussed on satisfying the subject’s bondmates’ needs, and the acute attention to detail observed in other aspects of the subject’s conduct can be observed in the erotic sphere too. This change in focus of attention is driven primarily by the hormone_ yamareen _, which acts in the vulcan brain to stimulate an obsessive focus on the wellbeing of the subject’s bondmate(s). Humans bondmated to vulcans have reported their vulcan partners lavishing attention on them during sex during the early stages of_ pon farr _, and going to great lengths to plan and execute sexual encounters designed to satisfy the human partner._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, you’ve had the fluff in Chapter 1 and the shameless slash in Chapter 2... Chapter 3’s going to be unresolved ANGST, so you can look forward to that!
> 
> Please do comment/kudos if you’re enjoying this... I thrive on your validation 💕


	3. Cortical Analeptic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little missing scene from near the start of _TMP_. Spock shows up in sickbay to ask discreetly for a prescription, but McCoy is in no mood to help. 
> 
> (Spones are Not Ok in this one. This is your “unresolved angst” warning.)

Cortical Analeptic

McCoy unloaded boxes of supplies from a crate on the floor, scanned each box with his tricorder, and stacked them on the shelves. “What does he want?” He asked, inclining his head toward the vulcan standing stock still in the dispensary doorway. 

“It looks like he wants to talk to you, Leonard,” Chapel replied. She scanned the label on a second packing crate with her tricorder. “Go on,” she urged, “I’ll finish off here.”

“Thanks, Chris.” McCoy switch off his tricorder and made for his office, the newly-reappointed ship’s science officer following. 

“Well? What do you want?” McCoy snapped as soon as the door sighed closed. He banged his tricorder down on the desk.

“I require a cortical analeptic,” Spock said.

“Oh?” McCoy opened the desk’s draw, where, prior to the _Enterprise_ ’s refit, he‘d kept a bottle of bourbon and a couple of glasses, for emergencies. It was empty. He slammed it shut. “Well, I’ve just been reinstated as ship’s surgeon, so you’d better take a seat and start by telling me your symptoms, then _I’ll_ decide what—if anything—to prescribe.”

Spock remained standing. “I require a cortical analeptic.” He repeated.

“Why?”

“Please examine me, Doctor.”

McCoy snatched up the tricorder. Spock stood still while McCoy scanned him.

“Well,” McCoy said when he was finished, “your body temperature‘s a little high, even for a vulcan. And your heart rate’s up too.” He looked down at the tricorder’s display. “Your _yamareen_ levels are through the roof.”

“Quite.” Spock said.

“You!” McCoy shoved the vulcan roughly against the desk. “You’re in _pon farr_ , aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Spock admitted. He placed his hands on the doctor’s shoulders and gently-but-firmly pushed him away. “Hence my need for a cortical analeptic.”

“Is that why you showed up here? Because you wanted a fuck? You’re unbelievable!” McCoy ranted. “After all that _kol_ —uh— _kolineer_?”

“ _Kolinahr_.” Spock supplied.

“Yeah. After all _that_ nonsense, you come back here when you need to get laid?”

“I came to sickbay for the analeptic.”

“No, I meant your coming crawling back to the _Enterprise_ , you green-blooded asshole.” McCoy smacked his hand against the side of the computer monitor, waking it.

“I came to the _Enterprise_ because I felt an intelligence calling me. I was unaware of any _pon farr_ symptoms when I left Vulcan.” Spock put a conciliatory hand on McCoy’s arm. McCoy shrugged it off. “It has rather taken me by surprise, in fact. I wasn’t expecting it for another month.”

“You‘ll have to ask Dr Chapel.” McCoy slapped the monitor off again.

“You’re the ship’s surgeon. You have a duty,” Spock reminded him, “and I’m asking you.”

“I can’t prescribe anything. I must declare myself unfit for duty.” McCoy opened the drawer again and stared into it, hoping to will the old bottle into being.

“How?” Spock asked.

McCoy tapped his temple. “We’re still linked, aren’t we? Your _pon farr_ is making me crazy too. Much too crazy to wield a hypo.”

“You’re a stubborn man, Dr McCoy.” Spock said. He turned and left the office, the door sliding closed behind him.

_Pharmaceutical manipulation of the subject’s serotonin levels can be employed to alleviate the symptoms of_ pon farr _. Cortical analeptics can delay the onset of pon farr if administered in within the first 48 hours of the onset of symptoms. However, drugs are only effective at delaying_ pon farr for seven-to-ten days, after which the condition will reappear and run its course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fear not! I’m not torturing our heroes with unresolved angst for long! Next chapter is wholesome fluff and caretaking.


	4. Mementos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Retired!Spones have moved into a nice little house together. Bones unpacks the final moving box just as _pon farr_ season comes around again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like I’m back on my domestic fluff bullshit...

Mementos

McCoy crossed off the day’s date, put the cap back on the pen, and touched his finger to the big red circle on the calendar. “Tomorrow.” He murmured.

He turned his attention to the cardboard box on the coffee table and lifted out the red velvet fabric protecting the breakable items, refolded it, and laid it aside. Underneath was a collection of odds and ends McCoy and Spock had packed up for storage from their respective quarters decades ago when that first Five Year Mission had come to its end. A pair of vulcan abstract sculptures; a case of holo-images labelled _Jo and Dad’s Vacation 2264_. He flipped through the plastic discs, pulled one out at random, set it on the table and flipped it on. A miniature teenager grinned and waved at him, the wind whipping her hair into her face. McCoy sighed and carried the disc to the piano. He set it on top of a volume of Beethoven’s sonatas, stacked along with other sheet music atop the instrument. He put the remaining holos, in their case, in a drawer containing old padds and data tapes. The sculptures he re-homed on a bookshelf.

Under a second layer of red fabric lay a broken communicator. The one McCoy had thrown against a bulkhead at the end of a frantic 20 hour shift during which he’d fought—and failed—to save two young engineering ensigns from their severe plasma burns. He turned it over in his hands. When he flipped the grille open one of the hinges gave out and it hung bent and lopsided from the body of the device. 

Spock arrived home to find his husband sitting cross-legged on the floor, crying quietly over an ancient, non-functioning communicator. He went to the kitchen and made a mug of tea—strong, black, with four sugars—and set it down on the coffee table beside McCoy. When McCoy has finished crying and was sniffling into his tea, Spock took the communicator, wrapped it in one of the lengths of fabric—the curtains from his old quarters—and placed it behind _The Complete Works of Surak_ on the bookshelf.

“That was the last box.” McCoy said, his voice cracking.

“Indeed.” Spock answered.

“That’s it. We’re properly moved in now.”

Spock nodded in acknowledgement and folded the empty box. He sat down on the floor beside McCoy and touched two fingertips to the human’s cheek.

“Just in time for our _pon farr_.” McCoy grinned and inclined his head toward the calendar on the wall.

“And we shall enjoy it in total privacy.”

Spock pressed his fingers to McCoy’s lips. McCoy flicked the tip of his tongue out and licked the pad of Spock’s index finger. “Mmm,” he hummed, “we shall.”

_Where possible, a Vulcan undergoing_ pon farr _and their bondmate(s) should be provided with utter privacy. A secluded dwelling is ideal. Where circumstances require_ pon farr _be endured on a starship, the subject and their bondmate(s) should be provided with ample quarters, sufficient provisions for several weeks’ seclusion, and be left free of interruption._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is angsty, angsty smut. I hope you’re ready!


	5. Light Years Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock’s on Romulus, McCoy’s on Earth, and _pon farr_ time comes around again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unresolved, angsty smut ahead...

Light Years Apart

McCoy could feel Spock’s disquiet pulling at the edges of his mind. He shovelled the last of the leaf pile into a wheelbarrow, pushed it over to the compost heap, and inverted it. He left the barrow on top of the heap, like a hat crowning the pile, pulled off his gloves, and headed into the house via the back porch, muttering about “that vulcan son-of-a-bitch” as he went.

Spock’s presence in his mind had become more insistent throughout the course of the day, growing from the usual vague background awareness of his mood and activity levels, to an inexorable knowledge of the vulcan’s emotional state and actions.

“That time again already, eh?” McCoy spoke aloud as he washed his hands in the kitchen sink. He could sense Spock’s attention focused on a physical object, almost feel a cool, sharp corner pressing into the pad of his own thumb where Spock pressed his thumb against— _Ah, yes!_ McCoy had a flash of recognition—the small IDIC trinket Spock habitually kept in his pocket.

“It’s going to be a difficult one for us both.” McCoy filled a coffee pot and set it to boil on the stove while he continued his one-sided conversation. “What with you being so damned far away and all. Did you _have_ to go?” He berated his absent bondmate. “Really? All that way? Couldn’t someone else have done it?” Resolute silence inside his head and the chirping of a bird outside in the garden answered him.

McCoy went to bed early that night, tired from the physical work in the garden and from the mental exertion Spock’s heightened presence in his mind demanded. He tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable. Trying to shut Spock and Spock’s growing _need_ out of his head. “Just meditate or something,” he grumbled aloud, wishing he’d paid more attention when Spock had tried to teach him to shield his mind.

 _We are beyond the point at which meditation becomes ineffective._ More of a thought bubbling up from his own subconscious than actual words.

“A lot of use you are.” McCoy snapped back into thin air. He pulled a pillow over his head, squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to ignore the unnerving feeling in his feet that they were walking—no, pacing—of their own accord, the phantom of a hard, cool surface slapping against his bare soles with each step, making him shiver under the duvet. “At least stand still!” He half-yelled into the pillow. The pacing continued.

After twenty-or-so minutes’ fidgeting and complaining aloud, McCoy was no closer to sleep, and Spock’s presence in his mind continued to behave in an agitated manner. He leaned out of bed and felt for the nightstand drawer in the dark. He opened it, rummaged, and pulled out a small tube. “Just give me some peace, Spock.” He muttered, wriggling out of his pyjama pants and tossing them to the opposite side of the bed. He squirted lube onto his hand and brought it to his cock. 

McCoy thrust miserably into his palm, muttering under his breath. “You green-blooded bastard, why d’you have to leave?” He repeated over and over like a mantra. He was getting close. He rolled onto his side and curled in on himself, pressing his face into the pillow to hide his tears from—he didn’t know what or who. Perhaps, and he knew it was an irrational thought, Spock could see him through their mental link, and he didn’t want the pointed-eared hobgoblin to witness his piteous state. He adjusted his grip on himself, squeezed his fingers a little tighter and increased the speed of his movement. “Damn you!” He cried, muffled by the pillow. “Damn you to Hell, Spock!” He spilled hot and wet over his hand and onto his thigh, splattering the sheet, and lay panting, sniffling back his tears.

It was quieter in McCoy’s mind now. Spock must have ceased his pacing. The pent-up energy had dissipated and been replaced with a feeling of yearning, spent dejection. McCoy got his breathing under control and grinned morosely to himself in the darkness. “You been having a lonely wank too, Spock?” He asked. Silence and stillness replied.

_Managing_ pon farr _without a bondmate, or when bondmates are physically separated from each other presents a challenge. Some vulcans have reported limited success in managing their symptoms through a combination of meditation and/or masturbation. Others have reported success in forming a temporary mating bond with a willing and available partner for the duration of the_ pon farr _to relieve symptoms. Bondmates (both vulcan and other species) of absent vulcans undergoing_ pon farr _should be observed by their physician for signs of stress, as they may experience sympathetic symptoms. Allowances should be made, such as temporarily relieving the subject from their duties, where possible._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***EDIT: the next chapter will be more angsty, sad wanking because we need to see what Spock’s up to while Bones is cry-wanking into his pillow, right? I’m off to draft it today, so watch this space...***
> 
> Do comment if you’re enjoying this, I like to read what you have to say 💕


	6. It’s Lonely on Romulus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock deals with his _pon farr_ alone on Romulus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More sad, lonely wanking, but it’s Spock this time.
> 
> I’ve updated the tags to include areas covered in this chapter, as it wasn’t part of my original draft, so please check them if you need warnings for specific types of content.

It’s Lonely on Romulus

Spock stared intently at the pressed-together tips of his index and middle fingers. McCoy’s laboured breathing as the human lifted something heavy resonated in Spock’s own chest, and he found himself panting slightly in spite of his attempt over the last hour to calm his body and thoughts through meditation. “Careful, Leonard.” He spoke aloud in a quiet, deep tone. “Bend your knees, not your back.”

Spock rose from the low stool and went over to a narrow window set in one wall of the small, bare room. He looked out over the Romulan capital, the rays of the setting sun giving its grey architecture a pink tinge where they struck the sides of buildings and rooftops. He tried to focus on his breathing, to slow it, and to bring his heart rate down along with it. But his awareness through their mental bond of McCoy’s continued physical exertion, and the feeling of phantom droplets of sweat running down the back of his own neck as McCoy worked under the late afternoon sun of an early autumn day in Atlanta, Georgia, caused Spock’s attention to wander. And the image that came unbidden to his mind, when he felt McCoy brace his body once more to lift another load, of the human’s thigh and gluteus muscles contracting to bear the weight—so clear in his mind’s eye he felt like he could almost reach through their mental link and give his bondmate’s bottom a gentle squeeze—had his breath hitching ragged in his throat. He reached into his pocket, found the small metal IDIC he kept there and pressed his thumb against its corner, using the cool pressure of the sharp edge to centre himself back in his own body. He turned from the window and began pacing the room.

Later, after his evening meal, Spock sat once more, contemplating the IDIC in his palm. He ran the tip of his finger first around the outside of the circle, then touched it once to the jewel in the centre, then down the middle of the triangle, before moving it back to the circle to repeat the cycle. He fidgeted on his stool. The pull of his bondmate light years away on Earth felt like McCoy was tugging on a hook embedded in Spock’s chest.

He jumped when a ghostly sensation of cold water splashed over his hands, the IDIC almost slipping from his palm. Spock pressed his thumb again to the corner, wincing as it dug into the pad, now extra sensitive from the many times he had pressed it to the metallic point that evening. When he released his thumb and examined the tiny dent the trinket had left in his flesh, he saw a small, greenish bruise spreading under the whorled skin.

“This is why you sleep so little, Leonard.” Spock said aloud to the ceiling. It was the small hours of the morning now and Spock lay on his back in his narrow bed. The effects of the caffeine McCoy had consumed earlier had flowed through their mental link, resulting in insomnia for both bondmates. The pull in Spock’s chest had lessened somewhat, but now an intense heat pooled in his groin, competing for his attention with his acute awareness of McCoy tossing and turning in his own bed, trying—and failing—to ignore the caffeine, his arousal, and Spock’s own restlessness in favour of sleep. The three tentacles between Spock’s legs, which usually sat curled tight against his body, slid languidly over each other, their awakening marking the inexorable progress of his _pon farr_ toward the final _plak tow_ phase.

“All the meditation which can usefully be done has been done.” Spock said to the ceiling, in answer to McCoy’s complaint seeping through their psychic connection. “We are beyond the point at which meditation becomes ineffective.” He threw back the cover, got out of bed and resumed his pacing, bare feet slapping on the cold, tiled floor.

Eventually, Spock’s pacing took him through the door of his single-room abode, down a corridor and into a bathroom shared with the other tenants of the cramped residence on the outskirts of the city he’d almost come to think of as _home_. He locked the door and examined his reflection in the long, wall-mounted mirror. The deep lines on his face and the bags under his eyes marked the progress of _pon farr_ s from that first—on Vulcan with Kirk, McCoy, T’Lar and T’Pring—until now. He stripped off his nightshirt and stood naked, feet slightly apart, hands clasped behind his back, staring at his reflection in the flickering overhead strip light. Freed from the restraint of his clothing, the tentacles between his legs writhed over each other, glowing with a faint bioluminescence, demanding his attention.

“Leonard, _ashayam_.” Spock half-whispered, his voice cracking as the invisible hook tugged sharply at his chest. “Leonard . . .” He sat down on the wide tiled edge of the bath before his legs gave way and, eyes still on his reflection, brought his hand to the bunched, wriggling tentacles. He cupped his hand and splayed his fingers, angled them toward his body, and reached out the tip of a tentacle to touch the tip of a finger. He choked back a sob at a memory of this time seven years ago, when he had slipped so easily into McCoy as the human perched on the edge of the kitchen counter, arms clasped tight around Spock’s neck, laughing—Spock couldn’t recall why—with his face pressed into Spock’s shoulder. 

Spock pushed the memory away and slid all three tentacles around his fingers, sliding over and around his digits, finding his rhythm with the slip-slide curl of tentacles against a slow an-and-out motion with his hand.

_Vulcans are broadly sexually dimorphic, with most individuals falling at the one or other end of the male-female spectrum. External male genitalia consists of three smooth tentacles, located in the groin area and varying in colour from grey-ish green to blue, due to the proximity of blood vessels to the surface of the skin. During_ pon farr _, a faint bioluminescence can be observed. The tentacles normally sit curled close to the body except during_ pon farr _, when they frequently uncurl and move with and without the subject’s conscious control, extending to a length of up to 20 centimetres._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter will be sweet, humorous fluff, I promise. Enough of the angsty wanking.


	7. Sharp Edges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunited back on Earth, Spock and McCoy endure _pon farr_ with some unexpected company.

Sharp Edges

Leonard McCoy closed the bedroom door, leaned his back against it and heaved a deep sigh. “As lovely as it is to see my son and grandkids, his timing is lousy.” He said.

Spock, reclining on the bed, looked up from his padd. “Indeed.” He nodded.

“It’s alright for you!” McCoy snapped, glaring at Spock. “You’ve been hiding in here ever since Leonard James Akaar and his six kids showed up yesterday.”

“I would not wish to get into a _kal-if-fee_ situation with your son, Leonard.”

“Is that likely?”

“As you are well aware, I am not in conscious control of my actions at present.”

“I’ll be sure to lock away all the kitchen knives, then.” McCoy turned to open the door.

“That would be a wise precaution, with children around.”

_Extraordinary levels of aggression have been observed in subjects undergoing_ pon farr _. This aggression is frequently directed toward those who the subject perceives as a threat to their mating bond. Care must be taken to avoid provoking_ kal-if-fee _, a ritualised fight to the death with the object of defending the subject’s exclusive right to the attentions of their bondmate(s). Vulcans have been known to attack bondmates’ family members, friends and colleagues during_ pon farr _, as well as bondmates’ real or perceived romantic partners._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of family fluff to wrap this up. I just love the idea of Leonard James Akaar showing up on Bones’ doorstep unannounced with a bazillion kids in tow, and Bones is both horrified and delighted by the unexpected arrival of his kid and grandkids. He’s actually a great grandparent... once he’s stopped running round in a panic.
> 
> Thanks for reading along. Please do drop a comment below and let me know what you think 💕 As always, I thrive on your validation.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Potau-slor-tukh_ is Vulcan for _sucrose_.  
>  _Theris_ is Vulcan for _tea_ (Vulcan style).  
>  _Yamareen_ is a hormone released during _pon farr_.  
> (Source https://www.starbase-10.de/vld/)  
>  _kal-if-fee_ is a vulcan "passion fight" to the death.  
> (Source https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Kal-if-fee)  
>  _Ashayam_ is Vulcan for _beloved_  
>  (Source https://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=ashayam)
> 
> Thanks goes to the perverts of the _Leonard McCoy’s Kinks Appreciation Club_ <3


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